Withdrawal
by editor frog
Summary: Why you never do an interview while going through it...
1. Part I

**The bunny came from tearbos. You like, thank her. :) Hope you enjoy.**

**Disclaimer: Criminal Minds is not mine.**

* * *

The young agent flipped through the endless piles of paperwork, searching for the information sheet that was _supposed_ to be on top. "Stanton Doveleski," he spat, a sharp edge to his voice.

"What of it? So you know my name. Big deal." The giant man in the bright orange suit barely wriggled. A small smirk fell over his round face. _They send me a child for this, _the sadist thought. _A little child I could snap in two…_

"Where do you want to start?" The skinny kid was grimacing as he finally threw the set of papers in front of him, letting the scraps of notes and photographs scatter pell-mell across the thick formica.

"Doesn't matter." The sound of chains rattles through the agent's ears as Doveleski's hand rises to scratch an itch underneath his nose. "We could start with the highrise. God, that one burned like a Roman candle."

Reid looked as the face before him, a wistful, almost reverent look to it. He resisted the urge to slap the man where he sat. His hands began shaking, not much but enough for it to become difficult to grab the photo of an eight-story apartment building engulfed in flames.

"You mixed gunpowder, kerosene, and paint thinner, poured it over the fifth floor hallways, and dropped a match."

"And the screams were magnificent. You forgot the explosives wired on the first through fourth floors. The scent—it was like going home to a barbecue…" Doveleski's water-blue eyes twinkled at the memory.

"Oh, shut up," Reid snapped. His hands were twitching more violently now, and it was becoming harder to stay focused on the interview. _Damn it, _he thought. _We've only got one chance to get this…he dies on Friday…_

"That's a laugh, kid. You telling me to 'shut up.'"

"There's only one person who gets to call me that," Reid barked. "_You_ are certainly _not_ that person, so let's focus, shall we?"

The giant man shrugged. "Whatever."

"Damn right," the agent muttered under his breath. The shaking in his hands just wouldn't stop. His head was beginning to pound. "Now, what about this particular fire was important?"

"Cleansing ritual," Doveleski replied simply. "Doctor had told me two months before I needed to relieve some stress. Decided that burning the place would do the trick. You know, aromatherapy and crap."

"Burning flesh as aromatherapy." Reid repeated. God, he could smell the scents just thinking about them—smoke, ash, paint thinner, burnt flesh. His stomach turned over inside him just thinking about it. His shoulders began twitching, and the headache worsened.

"Yep. Happened again in Cleveland. Just…needed a good barbecue, you know? Doctor told me I couldn't have that, and I decided to prove him wrong. Smelled good, too—scent of charred doc all nicely crisp in the right places. Almost wish I'd have eaten him, but…"

"You're saying each fire was triggered by a doctor's order?" Reid's eyes grew wide at that, and he was vaguely aware of his voice rising an octave or two.

"Look, kid, _I'm _the evil psychotic in the room, and I can tell you're clearly not focused here," Doveleski said. "We got time…"

"No, we don't," Reid snapped. "You're scheduled to die in thirty-six hours."

"Then get your shit together or we're done." Doveleski wished right then that he had a match in his hand. _The kid would go up like a birthday candle,_ he thought. _All bright and pretty…the smell, though—__**that**__would be fabulous…_

"What're you thinking about?"

"How good you'd smell if I tossed you in a slow fire."

Reid tried hard not to show disgust. "Yeah, well, I've been ordered off coffee, and I've got a gun. You think the memory of smell is strong? Try getting the shakes from caffeine withdrawal."

Doveleski instantly fell silent. The kid's voice…it almost sounded possessed…

Across from him, Reid sat dreaming of a swimming pool full of espresso. "Now, about the fire in Zanesville…"


	2. Part II

**So I decided to make this a trilogy. Here's Part II. Hope you enjoy.**

**Please see disclaimer in Part I.**

* * *

"Hotch, you _really_ gotta do something about Reid…"

The lead agent looked up from the mountain of paperwork on his desk and focused on Emily. "Why? Did something hap--"

"What in the _hell_ were you _thinking_, Reid?! Seriously? Have you lost your mind altogether?!"

"Keep your voice…"

Morgan's shouts reverberated off the bullpen walls. Faces started peering in through the giant glass doors, and people nearby began scurrying for cover. "Keep _my _voice down?! What the hell do you call what _you _were doing about three hours ago?!"

"Look, Morgan, I'm sorry…if I could just get…"

"Get what? Your head on straight? You're lucky that guy didn't _kill _you!" A pair of dark brown eyes glinted like shiny pieces of coal, silently demanding an explanation from the tall drink of water Morgan called both a colleague and a close friend. "What if he'd have called your bluff? Did you _forget_ there were two other people in the room with you?!"

"Morgan. I'm sorry. I never meant to…"

"Damn right you better be sorry!" Morgan's chest was heaving as though he'd biked over two hundred miles in half an hour. He looked at the face of the younger agent, which was wincing in pain. He noticed that Reid kept rubbing his fingers against his temples and his eyes were squinting against the light. "What the hell are you doing?" Morgan asked.

"Trying to relieve the headache," Reid said softly. "Please, just let me alone right now…I promise, you can scream at me later."

"Seriously, are you all right? I mean, that crap back there—that's not you…"

Hotch watched from the safety of his office as the two agents in the bullpen quieted down and Morgan began to look concerned. "What happened at the interview?" he asked, looking at Emily.

The woman shrugged, her hair rustling against her crimson blouse. "Remember that case in Houston? After Reid…"

Hotch nodded. "What about it?"

"Well, he was starting to get all weird, like then."

"He's not regressing, is he?"

"No, no no no no," Emily said rapidly, holding her hands up as a sign of assurance. "Nothing like _that_. I mean, he was just…antsy. Worked up. Like he was missing something, and he couldn't get over it. Doveleski apparently tried pushing a few buttons, and Reid nearly took his head off. Something about caffeine withdrawal…"

"He did what?"

"I'm telling you, if they allowed us to keep guns in federal prisons there'd be one less execution this week, Hotch. This isn't Reid. Something's…"

"…definitely not right. I'll look into it." He noticed Emily's small smile of relief as she tipped her head and made her way back to the now-empty bullpen. Looking out the window, he noticed that both Morgan and Reid were nowhere to be found.

_Hopefully Morgan's getting to the bottom of this,_ the lead agent thought to himself. _Emily's right—this doesn't sound like Reid at all…_


	3. Part III

**The plot thickens...**

**Please see disclaimer in Part I.**

* * *

"Reid? Reid, it's Hotch. If you're there, open the door…"

"Hotch, I don't think he's coming," a thoughtful voice said. "Maybe he's…"

"Dave, you've been back a while. You ever see him _willingly_ miss work?"

Rossi stood in the hallway next to Reid's apartment door, his brows furrowed in thought. "No," he began. "He's usually the first one out the door towards the plane if there's a case."

"Exactly. He's missed three days in a row, and that's just not like him. I'm worried he might…"

"Be up to something you thought he'd kicked?" Rossi looked at the younger man next to him with a knowing look.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Come on, Hotch. I'm not all that slow. Every time the kid's left the room since the interview in Ohio either you or Morgan's been tailing him. Emily's picking up extra work off of his desk. JJ's been giving him these subtle looks, like she wants to ask him something and thinks better of it. And I bet if I ask her, Garcia will admit she's been doing a little, ah, 'private research' on the good doctor in there. Now, I admit I'm just catching up on some things, and that some things aren't meant for me to know, but you gotta admit that that's a little strange, even for people like us."

"He could have just gone to visit his mother," Hotch pointed out, trying to sidestep the question.

"I don't think so. And the look on your face says you don't either."

Hotch heaved a huge sigh. "You're right. He usually leaves word if he's going to do that, and there've been no reports of anything from the sanitarium concerning his mother…"

Rossi's eyes widened a little at that. "Sanitarium?"

"His mother's schizophrenic. She needs round-the-clock care."

"I see."

"I didn't tell you that."

"No, you didn't. But you're also not telling me what it is you're all so worried about."

Hotch fell silent a moment, then raised his voice again. "Reid! Open the door, or we'll break it down!"

"Hey, what the hell…" a short, round elderly woman said, peering out of her apartment door. "The doctor in some sort of trouble or something?"

"Ma'am, how well do you know Dr. Reid?" Rossi asked.

"Well enough. Quiet thing, keeps to himself a lot. Always helps me with the answer to the crossword puzzle every now and again, when the mailman sends his bills to the wrong box."

"Ma'am…"

"Susan. Been that for the last sixty-eight years, why stop now?"

"Susan," Hotch said, "We're colleagues of Dr. Reid's. He hasn't been to work in three days. Do you know if he's left for somewhere?"

The woman thought about the question a minute. "No, not that I know of," she replied, fussing with the ruffled drawstring of her maroon-colored robe. "He usually asks me to stop by and water his plants when he's got business out-of-town; check his mail, things like that…"

"You have a key to his apartment?"

"Why, yes…but what on earth…?"

"Susan, may we borrow that key?" Rossi asked. "I promise, we only want to find out where Dr. Reid's gone. No one's seen him for days, and we're worried."

"You work with Dr. Reid, you said?"

"Yes," Hotch and Rossi said in unison, displaying their credentials.

"Oh, yes," Susan said, taking Hotch's into her wrinkled hand. "Okay. He mentions you all sometimes…the names are familiar. Just a second." The short woman disappeared behind her door, taking the credentials with her. A moment later, she produced an old, skeleton-looking key. "You take this, and I'll keep these," she said, wiggling the credentials in her hand. "Just so you return the key, mind."

"Agreed," Hotch said. It was way too early in the morning to argue, and his worry about Reid trumped the situation by tenfold. Taking the key in his hands, he returned to his colleague's front door and turned the thin key in the ancient lock.

"I hope he's home," Rossi muttered, half to himself.

"So do I," Hotch said, gently turning the doorknob and admitting the agents inside.


	4. Part IV

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The place was a disaster. Dishes lay in the sink, stacked a mile high. Coffee cups and grounds lay scattered across the bar counter, the stove and the top of the microwave. There was a small pile of papers laying over the small kitchen table in a heap. Rossi picked up one of them and began to scan it.

"The case from Des Moines," he called over to Hotch, who was too busy taking in the sight of Reid's bookshelves. Half of the books had been scattered along the wooden floor, the other half lying haphazardly on the dusty shelves. Hotch picked up the sleeve of one of his young colleague's dress shirts, one of nearly a dozen that were hanging limply over the furniture.

"That report was supposed to be turned in two weeks ago," the lead agent pointed out. "Reid!" he called out. "Reid, it's Hotch and Dave. Are you all right?"

Rossi looked down the narrow hallway. "Bedroom door's open."

"I'll check there. Could you…?"

The senior agent walked towards the small bathroom. There were several bottles of pills lying open on the countertop.

"Blood pressure…blood pressure…hmm," Rossi mused. "Looks like he's gotten some bad news, Hotch…" He said to his colleague, who just now poked his head into the doorway.

"He's not in there," Hotch said, tipping his head towards the bedroom. "Though the place is a mess, which isn't like him."

"You've been here before?"

"Once," Hotch admitted. "He was having some trouble a few months ago…"

"What kind of 'trouble'?"

Hotch didn't answer. "So, the place is trashed, the door's not been forced and he's nowhere to be found. Means what?"

"I'd check the hospitals," said Rossi, pointing out the bottles of medication on the counter. "I think he found out he's got high blood pressure problems."

"But hypertension wouldn't cause this level of disorganization," Hotch countered.

"It would require some serious changes to your lifestyle," Rossi said. "I should know—I take a couple of these things myself."

"Really?"

"The curse of getting old. And having blood pressure problems run though the family."

"Mmm." Hotch looked in at some of the other pill bottles that lined the medicine cabinet. "Vitamins, sleeping pills, ibuprofen…oh."

"Oh?"

Hotch took out a small bottle. "Cymbalta."

"Anti-depression?"

"Probably to help with the post-traumatic stress…"

Rossi folded his arms across his chest. "We are going to have a serious talk about this, Hotch," he said, not threateningly but firmly. "If Reid's in here with pills for something he shouldn't have, this could be a serious cry for help."

Hotch went back in his mind. What could have happened that could set his youngest agent off like this?

_The calm voice, demanding to know who the FBI agent was. Reid's denials, also calm. The click of a safety catch being removed…_

"Damn," Hotch said. He then thought about Reid's behavior in the last several months—jumpy, nervous, irritable, acting out of character for him…

"_Hotch, you've gotta do something about Reid…" _Emily's voice cropped up in his head—the warning that the interview in Ohio hadn't gone well.

"_Seriously, are you all right? I mean, that crap back there, that isn't you…" _Morgan's voice, concern trying to mask the worry it held.

"Who's the prescribing doctor on these medications?" Hotch asked.

"Mmm…a Dr. Ovani," Rossi read. "For the blood pressure and the Cymbalta, anyway."

"Let's go talk with this Ovani," Hotch said. "Reid's not here, and if he's suffering a relapse…he could be anywhere right now, in any condition…"

"I'll drive," Rossi said.

"I'll go return the key," Hotch replied.


	5. Part V

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

The doctor was finishing up his paperwork for the night. There had been a couple of routine physicals, a couple of consults, the seventeen year-old who was having some slight problems with her third trimester, a broken leg, and that was just a 'light' day for him.

"Dr. Ovani?" a voice said, fingers tapping lightly on the door.

"Yes, Cathy, what is it?"

"There's some me here to ask about one of your patients…a Dr. Reid?"

James Ovani stared puzzlingly at his desk blotter for a moment. "Reid…Reid…oh. Yes. Send them in."

Cathy ushered the men inside, and the doctor rose from his seat. "I'm sorry," the doctor said, taking the offered hands. "I've got nearly two thousand patients—sometimes it take a minute."

The taller man held out two prescription bottles. "You gave these to one of my agents," the man, who had introduced himself as Special Agent Aaron Hotchner, said.

"Hmm. Yes. I did."

"Doctor Ovani, we're concerned about Agent Reid," the other man, Special Agent David Rossi, added. "He's not acting like himself, and now we can't find him."

"I'm not sure what…"

"Is there anything you can tell us that might help us find him?"

The doctor folded his hands in front of him. "I'm sure you understand about doctor-patient privilege…"

"We do. We're not asking you to break that. We just want to know what might cause the following symptoms---" Agent Hotchner listed off a plethora of things that all sounded familiar to the doctor, and he nodded as each one was mentioned.

"What you're describing sounds like a patient who has severe high blood pressure, along with symptoms of a post-traumatic-stress relapse."

Agent Hotchner nodded. "Aside from these medications, what else might you, theoretically, give a patient with these condition?"

"Theoretically, I wouldn't prescribe anything else. I would recommend counseling, or at least talking through the event that's causing the stress. I find that it helps my patients immensely to talk about their problems rather than medicate them, if it can be done."

"So in this case, it couldn't be helped?" Agent Rossi asked.

"How do you know Dr. Reid?" Ovani asked.

"We're his colleagues. I'm also his superior and have his power-of-attorney as far medical issues are involved," Agent Hotchner replied.

"Then you know about the incident he had in Colorado, yes?"

Both men nodded.

"And in Georgia before that?"

Agent Rossi looked strangely at Agent Hotchner, who again nodded.

"The stress doesn't help the hypertension, and his blood pressure is already pretty high normally," the doctor explained.

"What else would you do for a patient like this?"

"I'd advise them to cut out all caffeine—soda, tea, coffee…"

Both agents looked at each other. It was apparent to Dr. Ovani that something had clicked.

"As for Dr. Reid, I had to have him admitted yesterday. His blood pressure was out of control, and he needed supervision and rest, as well as some serious medications to bring the level down somewhat."

"What hospital?" Agent Hotchner asked.

"I can't believe I've told you this much," Dr. Ovani said. "I could lose my license…"

The agent handed him a card. "If he does, I'll represent you. I'm also a lawyer."

"St. Lucy's. It's over on Fairbourne."

"Thank you, doctor," Agent Rossi said as Agent Hotchner opened the office door.

"Good luck," the doctor called out in parting.

---

"Hotch, what happened in Georgia?"

"What?" Hotch's attention was focused on finding the right street.

"Georgia. What happened?"

A thin line set across the agent's mouth. "It was bad."

"How bad?"

"We had this unsub, he was slaughtering people in their houses and justifying the actions through the Bible," Hotch explained.

"Okay…"

"I sent Reid and JJ to this house, a farmhouse owned by a man called Tobias Henkle," Hotch continued. "They were just following up on a witness statement, but…"

"He was the unsub."

"Yeah. Reid followed him into a cornfield, and somehow Henkle overpowered and kidnapped him."

Rossi fell silent, but his face clearly said _there's more to this._

"Took us three days to find him, and _he_ ended up giving us most of the clues," Hotch said. "Henkle had devolved into a serious case of disassociative personality disorder—he was himself, an archangel who actually 'committed' the murders, and his own religious-zealot abusive father all at once."

"Well, that explains how he handled Cyrus in Colorado," Rossi realized. "He'd done it before…"

"Cyrus was rational and sane. Henkle was so fractured he literally was three people at once."

"What happened, Hotch?"

Hotch drew a deep breath. "The archangel personality made Reid play Russian roulette a few times; the father personality beat him literally to death—Reid suffered cardiac arrest—and Henkle's own personality both saved Reid from death and shot him up with the drugs he'd been using himself to escape for years. Reid had a hard time kicking that habit, and for a while no one noticed that anything was wrong."

"Other cases, problems of your own?"

"Something like that. It was Emily who was the first to figure out something wasn't right with him, and it wasn't until an arson case in San Francisco that Reid finally reached out for help during the middle of a briefing. It was pretty well coded, but we got it. And we got him help."

"That's what you were worried about earlier," Rossi said as the SUV turned into St Lucy's visitor parking. "You thought he'd relapsed."

"Hopefully he's still clean," Hotch said as the two walked into the hospital. "And he's only going through caffeine withdrawal."

"Well, at the rate he drinks coffee…"

"I know. This might be harder than the heroin."


	6. Part VI

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Riley Laskowski had dealt with her share of addicts. She'd seen patients hopped up on meth try making a break for the door. She'd had to deal with the tremors of alcoholics who just couldn't quit even after their liver was shot. She'd even seen a couple of heroin users try to sneak medical tubing and needles out of the supply drawers because they were broke—a five hundred dollar a day habit could do that to someone.

However, she'd never seen anyone like this.

"Sir, you're going to have to stop fighting," she said, bringing the spoon up to her newest patient's mouth.

"I can feed myself. I'm not an invalid."

"Don't I know it, honey," Riley said. "But after the last _five _attempts at sneaking off in the last _two_ hours, I can't let you up. Now, open wide."

The man refused, glaring at her with those wide brown eyes.

"Look. Either you open up and eat the food I've got here, or I'm having you put on an IV. Your choice."

Grudgingly, the patient took a small bite. "I hate asparagus," he pouted.

"Well, you're definitely not getting chocolate. Now, you want some water?"

"Only if it's run through a filter full of espresso grounds and got milk and sugar in it."

"So, that's a no?"

The patient glared again. "You do realize why I'm like this?"

"Yeah. I've seen hard-core heroin addicts more likable during withdrawal." Riley filled the spoon up again, this time with mashed potatoes. "Open up."

This time the food went down a little easier. "You know, you _could_ just let my right hand off the restraints," the man pointed out. "It's not like I could get to all the others in this position…"

"Oh, sure. Then you do something drastic like dislocate a shoulder or sneak a key out of someone's pocket and unlock yourself," Riley quipped. "You really think I haven't heard that line before?"

The man fell silent again. Riley could see the frustration boiling over inside of him. "Chicken?" she asked, spearing a piece off the tray.

"This is humiliating. I'm not a threat, and I'm not crazy," the patient spat.

"No. Crazy you are not," Riley agreed. "But orders are orders, even if you don't like them. I've seen your charts, Dr. Reid. One more cup of coffee or ounce of chocolate and you're pushing daisies. What would your family think?"

Reid thought about the phone call that would be made to his mother. He sincerely hoped that Hotch or Morgan would make that call, because he knew his mother might blame the girls for his death and he knew Rossi would probably scare her—though, he had to admit, Diana Reid could be pretty scary herself when she wanted to be.

Just as he was about to bite into the chicken, there was a tap on the door. "Reid?" a familiar voice asked, its owner stepping inside the private room.

"Wh-what are you doing here?" Reid squeaked, the bite of dinner forgotten. The idea that his colleagues were seeing him like this…

"Miss?" another voice asked, this one gruff and stern. "Why is Dr. Reid in restraints?" it demanded.

"Because he's tried sneaking coffee all over this hospital," Riley snapped, staring down the stone-faced man. "His blood pressure's through the roof, and we've tried to keep him away from the caffeine and salt as best we can, but he still 'escapes' and tries to get a triple espresso out of one of the machines."

"Reid…"

"Remember that 'problem' I had?" Reid said quietly, his eyes flickering towards Rossi.

"Yeah?"

"This is worse. That's nothing to kick compared to caffeine addiction." Reid noticed the look his superiors gave each other. He knew that look. "How'd you find me, anyway?"

"You've missed three days of work with no explanation," Hotch began. "You didn't mention taking any time off, and we called your mother's hospital and they said you weren't there."

"We checked your place, found a wreck," Rossi added. "And your pills."

"I should sue," Reid snapped, instantly regretting the words as they slid out of his mouth. "I'm sorry, I just…"

"Hey, I understand," said Rossi, inching the nurse out of her chair. "Believe me, Reid, I'm on a lot of the same meds."

"You are?"

"Well, for hypertension, anyway. Why do you think I always take decaf?"

"Tastes like cardboard, that," Reid grimaced.

"Could we have a minute?" Hotch asked the now-standing nurse.

"Honey, take all the time with him you like," Riley said, starting for the door. "He tries to escape again, though, and it's on you, understand? He gets _no_ salt and _no_ coffee—_period_."

As the nurse left the room, Reid stared after her. "Nazi," he spat.

"Reid. She's only following the doctor's orders."

"Oh, and he's any better?" Reid retorted. "Pills for the blood pressure but nothing to ease off the caffeine. _Now_ do you see why I didn't go into medicine?"

"If it's any consolation, Reid, we're all glad you didn't," Hotch said.

"Seriously, how did you…"

"Emily said something about the Ohio trip. Then you and Morgan got into it as she was telling me, and I heard that," Hotch replied. "Both of them were convinced you were, ah…"

"I'm not. I got my chip."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks."

Rossi looked like he was content to let the two men carry on talking without him, so he settled for staring out the window a while.

"They really thought that?" Those wide brown eyes now looked pitiful.

"I think we all did, a little."

"Thanks." The sarcasm was evident.

"I think if you'd been gone much longer Garcia would have started a full-scale search for you," Rossi broke in. "I happen to know she was pulling files that didn't pertain to cases recently…"

"So?"

"They all had to do with you, Reid. She was worried. So were we all."

Reid sighed. "Well, here I am, stuck until the blood pressure drops and the warden lets me off this bed. Do you know, they won't even let me take care of myself? Sponge baths, bedpans…" The young agent grimaced again. "I'm not an invalid."

"No, but right now you need rest," Rossi advised.

"Or I'll put you on a mandatory leave," Hotch threatened. "Either take it now voluntarily or else."

"You wouldn't."

"Really?"

"Hotch, if anyone thinks I'm not able to do my job…" Reid said, his face full of terror and his voice rising two octaves. "There isn't anything else I could do…"

"No one's kicking you off the team, Reid," Hotch said. "Certainly not me."

"And I'll have a little talk with a certain Section Chief if it comes to that," Rossi promised. "You're not going anywhere unless you want to, right, Hotch?"

Hotch nodded.

The young agent let out a sigh of relief. "Um, I hate to ask this, but…"

"Yes?"

"Could I have another bite of chicken? I'm kind of hungry now…"

Rossi picked up the neglected spoon. "Open wide," he said, inserting the piece of meat into his colleague's mouth.


	7. Part VII

**See disclaimers.

* * *

**

Three days later, and the restraints still hadn't come off. Reid was growing more and more impatient, feeling like he was being held against his will in a very nice prison cell. He wondered off and on if this was what his mother felt like on occasion, when her meds were working and she was having a 'good' day.

"Come on," Reid cried as the Nazi nurse from two days ago shook her head. "I've had no coffee, no salt, no chocolate, no aspirin—that's got to have helped some, hasn't it?"

"Some, Dr. Reid. But you're still stressed out. Stress is also not good for patients with high blood pressure, and you have to _relax._"

"Give me three hours in a hot tub filled with bath salt, and I'll be fine," Reid said irritably.

"Look, your doctor wants to keep you one more day for observation, just to see if the new meds are working for you. Then you can go home."

"Really? You mean you'll let me walk out of here? By myself?"

"Well, you'll have to have someone stay with you for a couple days, just in case the hypertension spikes again. I'd start thinking about who you might want to call…"

"Hey, handsome," a voice said, its owner peering in from the hall. A pair of lavender-rimmed glasses framed a round face, with blond hair tousled into a messy ponytail on top. In the woman's hands was a large basket.

"Hey, Garcia," Reid said, glad for the distraction. To the nurse he asked, "Are we done?"

"For now." As she stepped out of the room, Riley pulled the young man's visitor to one side. "He's going to need someone to stay with him once he's discharged," she said softly. "I thought I'd let you know…"

"Okay. I'll set something up," Garcia said. She hurriedly came in and overtook the lone chair that stood empty in the small room. "So, how's the patient?" she asked, her voice ever-cheerful.

"Garcia, do you think you could…"

"Sorry, doctor," she said, a half-smile crossing her face. "They still don't give out keys to the hired help."

"Worth a try, right?"

"Yeah. Listen, I hear you have to have someone stay with you once you get sprung from here," she said. "Any ideas as to who you want?"

"It's not like there's anyone…"

"_Au contraire, mon ami,_" Garcia said, shaking her head. "I personally know six people who'd be happy to do it."

"I can't ask them," Reid pointed out. "Everyone's got work, and I'll still have to be off for at least three more days."

"Hmm. Let's see," Garcia said, holding a sugar cookie up from her basket. "You want one?"

"Sure." He opened his mouth wide and took a huge bite.

"I've also got peanut butter, and oatmeal ones without raisins."

"Thanks, Garcia."

"Don't mention it. I remember thinking the hospital food was actually edible plastic wrapped in cellophane when I was here."

"It's not much better, but the toast is okay."

"Ooh, toast. With butter?"

"Strawberry jam."

"You suck."

"But someone has to feed it to me, remember?"

"Oh. Yeah. Sorry 'bout that."

"Cookie?"

Garcia fed Reid another cookie, this one peanut butter.

"So, anyone you like?"

"Like?"

"To come stay with you. Geez, some genius." The analyst playfully batted Reid's leg as she said that.

"Garcia, everyone will…"

"I happen to know that Morgan and Emily are planning some time off. Hotch has that great big house with no one in it, and I'm pretty sure JJ wouldn't mind having you over at her place for a couple days as long as you help Will with the baby. Who is, by the way, even cuter than you are."

Reid smiled at that. The newborn _was_ actually kind of cute, once you got past the bald head and the mass of wrinkles on the face. He had big green eyes, much like Will's were.

"And if you don't pick in the next ten seconds _I'm _taking you home," Garcia added. "You can sleep on my couch and I'll feed you ice cream."

The thought of being in Garcia's apartment sounded promising. "I'll have to think about it, okay?" he said. "There's a couple things I have to consider…like who I'll annoy less…"

"Oh, we're all used to you by now, gorgeous," Garcia pointed out. "Even Morgan, who might still complain from time to time. Fact is, I think he complains just because he cares."

"Cares about what?" another voice said, floating around the corner. The sight of Morgan and Emily waking in was the last thing Reid expected to see right then.

"Ooh, cookies," Emily said, hovering near the basket. "Mind if I have one?"

"Go ahead," Reid said.

"Hey, someone needs to stay with him once he leaves the hospital," Garcia said. "Just for a couple days…"

"I've got room on my couch," Morgan said.

"I can make up the spare room," Emily replied. "And fire up the hot tub."

"Guys, really," Reid said. "Don't we have a case or something?"

"The "B" team's really been slacking off this year," Emily said through bites of oatmeal cookie. "Hotch has been sending them on more cases the last couple of months."

"Yeah, kid, didn't you notice you've been in town a lot longer than normal?" Morgan chided gently.

"Considering I've only seen these four walls for the past four days, I guess I haven't noticed."

The four agents chattered on about everything and nothing until the nurse returned. "Dinner," she said, placing the tray on the small cabinet near the bed. "You want me to stay, or…"

"We'll handle it, ma'am, thanks," Morgan replied, shooing the woman off. She'd come dangerously close to seeing what was inside Garcia's basket, and he didn't want Reid to have to stay cooped up another day or two because he'd had a cookie.

"Thanks," the nurse said, happy to be relieved of her chore.

"We'll figure something out," Emily said as each of them took turns spoon-feeding Reid his dinner. "We could always just come stay with you a couple of days...unless you've gotta clean up a bit or hide the key to the spare closet you don't want us snooping through…" The grin on her face was wider than the window opening behind her.

Reid thought about that a moment. "Or I could put you to work…"


	8. Part VIII

**Standard disclaimers apply.

* * *

**

"How're you feeling?"

"Dave. If you ask me that one more time I'll have to have a neon sign made that'll put the Vegas Strip to shame. I'm okay. Really."

Rossi sighed and started stirring the pot of pasta on his stove. He had some time coming up he'd had to use, and since the Galens were off on a well-deserved trip to California, he really didn't have anywhere he wanted to visit or go to. It was because of that that everyone nominated him to 'take care' of Reid for a week—he'd be able to stop the kid from drinking coffee or putting a pound of salt on his plate and make him relax. However, after three days he saw why Morgan sometimes found the kid a little irritating.

"Smells good, whatever it is," Reid said.

"It's penne pasta. Pour some spaghetti sauce over it, with chicken…" Rossi made the universal sign for 'perfect' by kissing the tips of his fingers as he pulled them from his lips. "Little mushroom, little black olives, some garlic…"

"You like to cook?"

"Somewhat. I like Italian cooking. And game. The game birds taste better, but seeing as your doctor sent this note home with you, we'll stick to the chicken. I would guess you cook a little…?"

Reid shook his head. "The oven turns on, boxes get opened, and by adding water or milk to things I get food. I can't even fry a hamburger half the time." He smiled as he said that. "The one thing I can't do well."

"No one is good at everything. Even if they're good at lots of other things." The pasta began to boil, and soon the smell of tomatoes and spices were wafting up towards the vaulted ceiling. "Could you chop some lettuce? We can have salad and a good red-wine dressing with the pasta."

Pulling the head of lettuce out of the oversized refrigerator, Reid brought it to the main island and started chopping, careful of his fingers. He remembered the time he was fourteen and had had to get stitches after nearly chopping his finger into the carrots he'd been working with. "They say red wine is supposed to be good for heart health," he replied.

"They say. Prefer chardonnay, myself, but now and again a good merlot complements a steak."

"I guess I never saw you as a cook," Reid admitted, now carefully quartering tomatoes and dropping them in the salad bowl.

"I know where you're going with that, and the answer is this: learned a couple things from him, but mostly from my father, who _was_ a cook by trade. Ran the best Italian market and bistro in Chicago. My mother ran the till and did Old World baking, mostly Italian and some French."

The thought of something sweet made Reid's eyes widen a little. "Remember anything?"

"Unh-uh," Rossi said. "No sweets for you."

"Dark chocolate is also supposed to be good for you—brain food."

Rossi looked at the young man with a warning eye. "Brain food or no, it's got two tons of caffeine in it. You want a dessert, you'll have to find one with no salt and no caffeine. Meaning no chocolate."

Reid looked as though he'd been told there was no Santa Claus. "No coffee, no tea, and flat Coke. I feel like I'm being punished."

"Just be glad you aren't staying at Morgan's."

Two pairs of eyes locked momentarily at that remark. "Yeah," Reid said finally. "I'd go crazy. All that coffee—and the salted nuts…"

"Just glad I gave up the leaded stuff. Hypertension makes you look at how you eat differently; it really does."

"I think _that's_ the real reason they picked you to 'look after' me. You know what I might try, and what I can't have."

"Sometimes there are real perks to being me." Rossi's smile was worth a thousand watts.

Reid tried to stifle a snicker. He tossed in some croutons (no more bacon bits for him) and began to stir the lettuce and vegetables together. Rossi drained the pasta and added browned chicken to the sauce, bubbling nicely with chopped portabella mushrooms and a full can of sliced black olives. There were bits of carrot and celery in the sauce jar, and soon a half a chopped pepper and some grated onion and garlic would be added in to give the sauce some flavor.

"You don't make your own noodles, do you Dave?"

"I _can._ But I don't. Too much time to make, though they _do_ cook quicker." The sauce was recovered, allowing all the ingredients to simmer.

"And everyone's coming at eight?"

"Yep. Wanted to see how you were doing, though you've got to stay here another three days yet. I think Emily's here just to see what the food will be like."

"That and she and Morgan can do some more 'internal profiling' once they see the house."

"Not what you'd expect, is it?"

Reid smiled. "Definetely not."


	9. Part IX

**Usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

**

"I feel like I walked into the Met."

"Nah, Prentiss—we're definitely into some deep Roman and Venetian vibes here. St. Peter's?"

"I heard that," Rossi said as he stepped into the giant marble-floored entryway. The sight of the two young agents taking in the museum setup of the space was enough to put a smile on his face. "Shame, really…here I'd have thought you would be more appreciative of the fine arts, Emily."

Emily put on her best 'polite' smile. "I prefer more modernism, myself. Though I've always been a fan of Munch's _Scream."_

Morgan looked at his colleagues as though he'd been sucked into an issue of _Museum Quarterly._ "Okay, so…something smells good," he said, in an attempt to change the subject.

"Something smells _great_," Emily clarified. "I didn't know you were a cook, Dave…"

"Actually, I had some help."

The sound of two jaws firmly hitting the floor was enough to make Rossi start laughing.

"You're serious?"

"And the place is still standing?!" Morgan said, truly impressed.

"Guys, how on earth did you think I survived the first twenty years of my life?" Reid said, walking into the entryway. His brown eyes furrowed slightly, challenging his colleagues' viewpoint on his culinary skills.

"I…ah…" Emily stammered.

"Well, your mom cooked, didn't she?"

"And when she got bad?"

"Take-out?" Morgan shrugged.

Now even Reid had to laugh. "Well, yeah. That and Campbell's soup. And a lot of sandwiches."

"Seriously, Reid, how're you doing?" Emily said, giving her friend a hug.

"Better, though the Caffeine Nazi here won't let me get a cup of coffee, or chocolate, or even give me real French fries from McDonald's." Rossi looked on as Reid pointed his thumb at the older man.

"Hey, you want to die at twenty-eight, be my guest. Just find someone else to have to explain it to your mother," Rossi retorted. "Come on in, guys," he said to Morgan and Emily, taking their coats. "I'm not sure about anything else tonight, but I know the food will be up to par."

As Rossi led the three into the kitchen while he finished the chicken and sauce, Morgan leaned into Emily's shoulder. "Twenty minutes, and we'll finally have this guy figured out," he hissed.

"You're on."

----

"Dave, are you sure this isn't take-out?" JJ said through bites of lettuce salad. "I mean, this is fabulous."

"Thank Reid here," the older profiler said. "He's responsible for the salad."

The sound of several forks clattering slightly and a deep hush of surprised silence engulfed the room. Eight pairs of eyes traveled down the table and settled on the young man in question, who was blushing so hard his face could have doubled as a Harvard beet.

"It wasn't that hard, guys," Reid said quietly. "I mean, it's just cutting vegetables…"

"Reid, I didn't know you knew what lettuce was," JJ said, and everyone at the table laughed, Reid included.

"Well, I'm stuffed," Hotch said, politely turning over his coffee cup. "I have to say, the olives in the sauce was an interesting move."

"What's a good dish without some sort olive?"

"Olives?" Garcia asked, looking a bit squeamish. "That's what those black things were?"

"Well, yeah, Garcia," JJ said. "Why? What'd you think they were?"

"Pepper?"

"That big of flake?"

"Really, really coarse pepper?" Garcia's fork fell to the plate slowly and she looked at her remaining pasta carefully.

"Well, at least it wasn't a bug…"

"JJ!" Garcia's eyes grew to the size of dinner plates.

Everyone laughed.

"Well, no more bug-olive pasta for me, though it was very good," the tech said brightly. "Better idea—I have this new game that Kevin got me for Christmas, and I've been dying to play it…"

Emily was already peering into the giant bag Garcia had brought in with her. "Settlers of Catan? Never heard of it."

"Oh, it's great. Played it once over Halloween at a party. It's like a combination of Monopoly and Risk—you try to get ten points by building stuff and having a good strategy. I figured…"

"I've heard of it too, Garcia," Reid said. "And I'm interested. Besides, give me one more thing to beat Morgan at…"

"Oh, you're on, smartass," Morgan said. "Laid-up or not, I can still get you at a board game."

"Oh, like when we played Scrabble?"

"Average guy from Chicago versus the world's walking unabridged dictionary? Hardly fair."

"And cards?"

"You cheat."

"Prove it!"

Morgan's eyes narrowed, though good-naturedly. "I swear, if I win at this game, you'll be doing my paperwork for a week."

Reid extended his hand. "You're on."


	10. Part X

**Slight delay. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

**

"I swear to God, Reid…"

"It's not my fault!"

"You just _happened_ to draw three rocks and had a road building card in your hand? Nuh-unh."

"It's true. And I win."

Emily snickered. "Hope you bought extra paper, Morgan…"

Morgan sighed and took a long pull on his ice water. He would have killed for an iced tea, but tea had caffeine in it and drinking it in front of his friend would have been tantamount to chaining him in a coffee brewery and only letting him smell the aroma of his favorite beverage.

"Yeah, yeah. Well, a deal's a deal, man."

"Finally—he can stop hovering over in fraud for a change," JJ said, her tone and face belying her playful suggestion.

"Fraud?" Reid asked, his eyes rising suggestively. "Really?"

"Oh, yeah," Emily said. "He claims it's for a case he's got a consult with…"

"And really?"

"It's for the lovely Celia," Garcia piped up, placing the lid on the game box and pulling out a deck of cards.

"I see," Reid said, drawing out the 'see.' "Which means in a week he'll have worked up the courage to ask her for a double date, right?"

"_Double _date?" Morgan cried.

"Sure. Austin's coming up, and I promised her I'd cook. Statistics show that a date taken in neutral territory is more likely to produce a second date, so…"

"But how is you cooking going to be neutral territory?" JJ wondered.

"Well, see, I have to stay here a few more days."

"Again, I'll say…"

"I'm housesitting, JJ. I'm fine."

"Housesitting?"

"Yeah," Dave said. "I got a call, was asked to come out to San Francisco for a couple days. I've already got the time off, so…"

"So dinner will be here. Gives me an excuse to practice my new cooking skills and reinforce the new diet I have to follow." Reid made a face as he said that. "Decaf coffee…now _that's_ a crime in and of itself."

"No argument here," Garcia said. She then pulled a small brightly wrapped box from her oversized purse and handed it over to the young agent. "Here, open it."

Reid eyed the box suspiciously. "What's inside—glass coffee beans?"

"Open it and find out," Hotch said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

Six pairs of eager eyes waited with bated breath as Reid gently tore through the bright green paper. "My luck, it'll be a live tree frog or something," he joked.

"No frogs," Garcia swore. "Or snakes either."

A collective shudder wove through the entire room at the mention of snakes. Reid carefully opened the box and pulled out a large ceramic mug that looked similar to Garcia's purple "Princess" mug, except this one was bright orange and had the word "Genius" inscribed in black ink.

"It screamed 'you'," she said happily. "You like?"

"Garcia, I love it."

"Plus the color is supposed to remind you to be careful about the coffee you put in there," she went on. "I thought red screamed 'stop' and bright green was just wrong."

"It's perfect. Thanks!"

The evening wound down after that, and once Morgan finally promised to hurry on getting that date Reid waved as the last of his guests headed for home. "Good party," he said softly.

"I'd say so," said Dave. "I'll pack in the morning. Good night." With that the older profiler headed up the winding staircase and headed for bed.

In the living room, Reid poured himself a cup of decaf coffee in his new orange mug, smiling at the simplicity and personalization of it as he pored over a large volume of _Othello_. An hour later, the young man was fast asleep in the large armchair he had curled up in, as though he were a cat come to roost for the night.


End file.
